


Say the rest with no sound

by Panny



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Justice League (2017)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26000524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/pseuds/Panny
Summary: “I need you to kiss me,” Bruce said again, which, yes, had been exactly what Clark had thought he’d heard. He just still wasn’t sure if he believed it.Kissing gets Clark and Bruce out of some jams and then into a new one.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 13
Kudos: 293
Collections: Fifth DCEU Fanworks Exchange





	Say the rest with no sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theae/gifts).



Clark Kent had very good hearing, to put it mildly. He’d become the unintentional keeper of many quietly disclosed secrets. If office gossip were currency, he’d never have to worry about making rent again. Even now, with the just on the wrong side of too loud piano (which was only becoming more distressingly out of tune as the night wore on, but if it wasn’t bothering anybody else, he wouldn’t be the first to say something), it was easy to pick out lines of conversation from the people milling about the gala. So, it was a bit of a novelty to get to turn to Bruce and say: “I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that.”

Bruce’s expression didn’t shift much. His lips thinned slightly in what might have been a prelude to the scowl that was his usual default expression on missions (or, at least, missions with Clark), but the rest of his facial muscles did an admirable job of not so much as twitching. Most people probably would not have noticed even that much unless they had very good vision (which Clark, admittedly, did) and were accustomed to watching Bruce Wayne very intently to puzzle out the nuances of his facial expressions (which Clark, admittedly, was—there were primarily two expressions Bruce used in his presence, but there were a lot of nuances). “I need you to kiss me,” Bruce said again, which, yes, had been exactly what Clark had thought he’d heard. He just still wasn’t sure if he believed it.

“What?” Clark said, though expecting Bruce to repeat himself a third time was probably pushing it. Maybe the venue had him nostalgic for being on receiving end of Bruce’s ire. Even so, he hastened to follow up with the far more pertinent: “Why?”

“Our mutual friend suggests an exit strategy.” Bruce’s voice was a low murmur, barely more than a rumble in his chest that Clark could feel as he shifted closer with a deliberate lack of subtlety. He smoothed his hands over Clark’s lapels, wiping away creases that even Clark’s most excellent vision couldn’t see. Clark rarely had to think about breathing, but he was suddenly startlingly aware of the act. More precisely, he was aware of the rise and fall of his own chest and the way that Bruce’s hands were forced to obediently follow the movement. “The word ‘quickly’ might have been used.”

“I don’t follow.”

“That’s the problem, actually. You did follow.” Bruce quirked an eyebrow to match the slow, lazy smile that formed on his lips. From a distance, it might have appeared as if maybe Clark had said something funny, though Bruce didn’t look much like he wanted to laugh. “You’ve been hovering around me all night while looking out of place and clearly uncomfortable. It’s one thing if Bruce Wayne gains a reputation for getting lost on the way to the bathroom, but it’s another if he disappears for minutes at a time after being seen in the company of a suspicious person. Especially once documents are leaked.”

Clark nearly winced. Replaying the night, he could maybe see where Bruce was coming from. Subterfuge wasn’t something he counted among his strong suits—Superman didn’t need it and Clark Kent usually benefited from affecting a certain amount of guilelessness. Diana would have been a better pick for the occasion, if she’d been in the area. As it was, the choice had been between Clark, Barry, and letting Bruce go in without onsite backup. If Clark had been too obviously out of his depth, he could only imagine how throwing Barry to the wolves instead might have gone. And as for the last option. Well.

He and Bruce were—maybe not friends, exactly. But the team meant something to them both. And they were finally starting to pave over the yawning chasm of unspoken regrets that lay between them with something that felt a little like middle ground. As much as he wouldn’t have believed it before the League—before Luthor and Doomsday and Steppenwolf—he trusted Bruce. With the team, with his identity, with the identities of those he cared about. With trying to do the right thing, when it counted. But the more he trusted Bruce with all the big stuff, the more he learned that it might not be wise to trust Bruce to look out for _Bruce_ , especially if those big things also hung in the balance. So, no, he hadn’t particularly liked the thought of letting Bruce field League-level work solo because even if he could be there faster than a speeding bullet, Bruce could find trouble twice as fast.

And maybe, just maybe, without thinking about it too hard, he had overcompensated out of worry. Superman might have been the only one of his identities who could fly, but apparently both of them were equally prone to hover.

“So, you see why it would be a problem if we’re seen leaving together,” Bruce said, apparently taking his silence as a prompt to continue. “And it would be alarming if you were to just disappear. They might think anything. Unless, of course, we give them something more interesting to think about.” He did not, in fact, repeat his request a third time but merely hooked his fingers under Clark’s chin to move him where he wanted him. His movements were sure, but they were a question all the same—they both knew that Bruce wouldn’t be able to move Clark unless he wanted to let himself be moved. And the thing was, there were probably a million other ways to get out of this situation if he refused. And Bruce was probably smart enough to think of at least half of them even if Clark didn’t. But Clark couldn’t see any reason not to just…go along with it. Kicking up a fuss would have made it weirder, actually.

Bruce’s mouth on his was soft and warm and his lips remained firmly closed despite his stated intentions. There was nothing especially scandalous about it except that it was Bruce Wayne doing the kissing. Apparently, that was enough because Bruce pulled back, tangling one hand in Clark’s tie as if to keep him close enough to hear him whisper. “Now, we can go.”

Clark had either done something very smart or very stupid and he wasn’t entirely sure which was more likely yet. He was, at the very least, glad that breathing was not an actual requirement for him because doing so at the present moment might have tipped the scales definitively and irrevocably toward ‘stupid’. As it was, he was trying very hard to keep a hastily stolen thumb drive pressed beneath his tongue without damaging it. Or swallowing it. It was much more difficult than it sounded.

He hadn’t really started the day intending to take anything, but an overheard cryptic conversation here, an unoccupied office there, and he was left trying to smuggle the alarmingly delicate evidence for a morally compromised R&D department’s work on biological weaponry out of the building without getting caught. In other words, the usual. And he had already thoroughly panicked, which had led him to the current predicament.

His press pass would do some of the leg work to get him out the door without too much trouble. And—the thought wanted to bubble into something approaching hysterical laughter, which would have been very much not good, for several reasons—he wouldn’t have to worry if they decided to check his pockets. The problem would come in if anyone expected him to talk. The thought of trying to pass the drive from his mouth to his hand was there, but he’d already made the mistake of continuing to walk into the most public part of the building. There would be eyes on him everywhere now until he reached the exit (probably and then some, if experience was anything to go by). Maybe if he did it _very_ fast—ah, and then the pocket problem. If he made a sudden break for the bathroom while he was already on his way out, it would only increase the likelihood that he would earn scrutiny. Of course, if the bathroom windows were large enough—

“Mr. Kent.” The surprise in Bruce’s voice seemed genuine, even if the broad smile he aimed in his direction did not. “What a coincidence to see you here. Are you leaving already? That’s a shame—these meetings are so dry and—”

Clark neatly bypassed the hand Bruce stretched out for, presumably, a brief amiable shake. He’d already done one badly thought out, impulsive thing today—what was another? Bruce’s eyes widened just slightly as Clark’s hands seized his shoulders, but he didn’t struggle or object as Clark pulled him in for a kiss, his hands instead grasping at the fabric of Clark’s shirt in a move that was automatic enough that it was probably practiced. He made a small noise of surprise that might have been at least partially feigned as Clark’s tongue pressed against his lips but opened his mouth without pause—as if kissing was something they did all the time and while tongue might have been new, it wasn’t _that_ new. Passing the drive, on the other hand, earned him a puzzled little nose scrunch as Bruce carefully prodded his new acquisition. Once Clark was sure that he wasn’t going to just spit it out or swallow it, he withdrew.

Bruce’s cheeks were dusted with a light flush, though his heartbeat was only slightly accelerated. His suit, for which the dry cleaning alone probably cost more than Clark’s whole outfit, was rumpled in a way that still somehow managed to look fetching. That almost felt worth it all on its own, seeing Bruce with his airs stripped away, but that the display had made at least two of the security personnel take a sudden, pointed interest in the flow of traffic visible through the windows was a nice bonus.

Blinking with owlish bemusement, Bruce coughed lightly into one hand, clearing his throat repeatedly. He then ran his hands over the wrinkles in his suit, making a real show of straightening them out, in a way that required him to make a few passes at his chest pocket. It was pretty artful, actually, even if Clark could follow the sleight of hand. “Well. Now I’m really sorry to see you go,” Bruce said. His failure to fully rein in his appearance gave his quicksilver smile an air of boyish roguishness that somehow didn’t seem at all incongruent with his age. It probably won him a lot of second dates from kissing partners who weren’t engaging in corporate espionage (and maybe a few who were, if you asked the less scrupulous tabloids).

“Just giving you something to think about,” Clark said with what he felt was an impressive degree of smoothness. It was easy enough to let himself smile back. “Enjoy your meeting.”

Security did insist on searching him on the way out. At least this way, it was mutually awkward.

Clark didn’t often get to enter through the front door when he visited Bruce. Their private lives still existed on a separate axis, carefully delineated. Clark didn’t come knocking at Bruce’s door with his business any more than Bruce would call the Planet to get in touch with him. If they were ever going to test those boundaries, they’d do it on neutral ground.

That being said, Clark hadn’t been to the Cave especially often either. They were all still primarily solo acts by preference, but none of them were quite as territorial about their independence as Bruce was. The Hall was for League matters; the Cave meant Gotham business and being invited to collaborate on Gotham business meant that things had to be very bad indeed.

Clark classified the current situation as much closer to ‘very bad’ than he was comfortable with. Bad enough that it certainly would have warranted a visit to the Cave if he wasn’t so strongly under the impression that his access was by invitation only. Bruce was a very clever and very paranoid man and Clark simply did not have the patience to deal with his security protocols at the present moment. He had other priorities, like getting Bruce inside and talking to Alfred as soon as possible.

And Bruce was out cold—flushed, insensate, and drooling on one of his best shirts. Possibly drugged (not worse, he thought, which was the only thing keeping calm within reach), a problem beyond what Clark’s abilities could analyze or manage. He could tell it wasn’t getting worse at least, which helped less than it should have. So, Bruce just didn’t get a say in the matter. Clark went through the front door.

If Clark hadn’t been so (concerned) distracted, maybe he would have been better prepared. It didn’t take a Superman to spot the signs, in this case. The glasshouse was an enigma, a weirdly ill-fitting part of the intensely private person he knew Bruce to be when both masks were off. He supposed that it was remote enough not to matter, but a part of him still itched to pick apart _why here_ and _why this house_ when surely Bruce could have lived anywhere, could have rebuilt his family’s estate years ago, could have constructed something perfect and precisely suited and just as opaque as he was.

All that was to say, of course, that it was kind of embarrassing in hindsight for him to be caught off-guard when his entrance drew the sound of too many footsteps and the appearance of Alfred’s (paling; older, somehow, than Clark had thought he was) concerned face was followed by sharp alarm in two others. Really, he could have spotted the too many pairs of politely removed shoes before he’d even opened the door. A part of him was glad that Bruce wasn’t awake to see it (the rest of him really couldn’t be glad about that at all).

“Master Kent,” Alfred said and the substitution of a single vowel betrayed the gravity of the situation more than a vocal tremor might have in any other man. Clark had come to accept uncomfortably respectful address as the price of entry (and the more he demurred, the steeper that toll seemed to become out of pure stubbornness, though he’d never dared name it as such in anyone’s presence). But the most formal title in Alfred’s repertoire only saw casual application when it came to Bruce, almost as affectionate by intent as it was inherently deferential. Clark had evidently done something to earn being addressed in kind in Alfred’s estimation more than once before; each time, the significance of the moment had not escaped him. It was something that Alfred’s guests would probably not notice overly much, but Clark felt the weight of the word far more keenly than even that of Bruce in his arms.

“Is he all right?” one of the other men asked, as if to remind them all that Clark was inexplicably carrying an unconscious Bruce Wayne cradled against his chest without apparent difficulty, as if he weighed no more than a child.

Clark’s laugh sounded too sharp to his own ears. “You know how it is,” Clark said, even though they assuredly didn’t. He was certain almost no one except for Alfred did. Maybe, increasingly, Diana. Clark still hoped that, one day, he might. “A little too much pregaming, I think. We had to call it an early night.”

“That must be disappointing for you.” The man who had not spoken yet echoed his laugh with a sympathy that was startling in its unkindness. His (friend?) shot him a look of embarrassed reproach.

Clark found it hard to shrug with the indifference he wanted. “There’ll be other nights,” he said, voice tight. And then to soften the sentiment, he pressed a kiss to Bruce’s brow—something he’d intended to be quick but which managed to linger until his glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose. Maybe to hide an expression that was surely too stern to fit on Clark Kent’s face, maybe because it just felt like the thing to do. Let them draw what conclusions they liked. “Bedroom’s at the back, Alfred?”

“Yes, of course.” Clark strode off to the sound Alfred faultlessly polite dismissal of the guests, assured the situation would be handled soon. Help was coming. His lips were warm with a strange transference of fever heat.

“You didn’t have to come,” Clark said, flexing until the cuffs snapped, falling to the floor with a clatter. Bruce’s expression was unreadable under the cowl (Clark tried not to take the lead lining personally these days), but he could feel the weight of his stare all the same.

“And if I hadn’t, how long were you planning to sit there before doing that?”

Rather than answer that very fair question, Clark said: “They were trying to get to Bruce Wayne.”

“I know.” Bruce knelt and picked up something that tinkled with shattered glass. Ah, that was where his glasses had gone, Clark noted with disappointment. He’d have to use the back up pair. He supposed he should feel glad that his captors had resorted to petty methods of intimidation rather than good old punching. The latter would have led to things that were a bit hard to explain.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, voice grating roughly over the words in a way that sounded vaguely painful. Clark didn’t bother to mask his surprise. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Bruce apologize before—not in those precise words. He was more of a Grand Gestures and Never Speak About It kind of guy. He hadn’t even apologized for—well, neither of them had, after all.

“What on earth for?”

“I didn’t give enough consideration to the target I put on your back. This could have gone poorly.”

Clark didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. It was plain enough that he wasn’t worried about Clark getting hurt—the worst possible outcome had been far greater and more permanent than that. As for the other part, well. “If you remember, I kissed you the second time. I think we can share the blame.”

“How could I forget.” It was hard to tell with Bruce’s face turned away from him, but it sounded like he might have been smiling. Which was decidedly un-Bat-like. The idea made Clark’s stomach do a funny little swoop, a feeling of falling that was almost literal in its intensity.

Clark swallowed. “What about the target on your back now? Bruce Wayne gets a ransom call and the Gotham Bat shows up—how’s that going to look?”

“We’re still in Gotham; nothing goes on here that I don’t know about.” Bruce unclipped his grapnel from his belt and tilted his head slightly. Clark obliged him by breaking the lock on the nearest window. “We’ll just make a big show of the reunion and then break up next week. It’ll be old news before it hits the printers.”

Clark didn’t have to wonder why and didn’t even feel all that resentful of being another Bruce Wayne conquest, relegated to the footnotes of page six now that he’d lost his shine. It was an entirely reasonable solution on its face, a neat way to solve more than one problem. There was, technically speaking, no reason not to just…go along with it. “I guess I should probably avoid kissing Bruce Wayne from now on, huh,” he said, voice so forcibly light that it almost cracked on the end.

“That would be for the best.” Bruce was opening the window, readying to leave and the right thing to do would have been to let him. It was understandable that he didn’t want to hang around here; Clark certainly didn’t. It wasn’t at all the right time or place. He couldn’t shake the thought that if he didn’t do something now, there would never be a better one.

Clark curled one hand around Bruce’s arm, only needing gentle pressure to pull him to a stop before he could swing out into the night. He pressed his lips briefly to the corner of Bruce’s mouth, meeting half lip, half stubble. Bruce hung in the window like a gargoyle, frozen in a surprised partial crouch. “Well, that one’s for Batman, then.” He beamed and the levity felt less forced. “You know. To thank my hero.”

Bruce huffed through his nose, jaw twitching with the suppressed impulse of some expression. “This isn’t a game, Clark.”

“I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t mean it. Not like that.” Not when he’d been speaking to _Bruce_ instead of _Bruce Wayne_.

Bruce sighed again, but there was no heat in it. “Bruce Wayne will be home in about five hours. You should meet him there.” And then he was gone. Which didn’t necessarily tell him much of anything, except. Well. It wasn’t a ‘no’. And it was hard not to feel that…well, Superman was in the business of hope, after all.

Even with the danger of bugs in his teeth, Clark found it difficult not to grin the whole flight home.


End file.
